


one hundred and sixty-eight

by shatou



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anterograde Amnesia, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Short term memory loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23164990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: Hannibal only has Will for seven days.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 124





	one hundred and sixty-eight

_“It’s beautiful,” Will said. Uttered those last words, before he laid his head on Hannibal’s shoulder, and Hannibal felt relief extending its tendrils within him. Relief could not be trusted: it made him shiver in Will’s arms and pliant to Will’s touch. It made him ignore the tells and nod with a smile as Will lifted the heels of his feet, graceful as though in a dance._

_They clung to each other tighter as they pierced through the night in the direction of gravity. Hannibal briefly wondered what Will imagined to achieve with this. Will turned his body mid-air, wordless. Hannibal let him. He could feel the waves rushing up to them both, and his eyes slid shut. If he didn’t have Will for eternity, he had Will for this moment._

When Hannibal opens his eyes again, he sees light.

Not harsh sunlight on a rocky shore. Soft, muted daylight, likely muffled by sheer linen curtains. What he is staring up at is not the open sky, either, but a high ceiling, ivory pale. Hannibal’s hand feels up his stomach. He’s surprised to find no bandages there; just bunched up scar tissues of a bullet entry wound, a few inches above his navel.

Hannibal sits up - in a bed, dry and warm, where he should have been bloody and at least waist deep in saltwater. He’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs under the blanket, which is stranger still. While he could fathom the thought of Will handling the aftermath all on his own, that does not explain his healed wounds. Nor the…

“Mornin’,” comes Will’s voice from beside him. Hannibal turns to him all too sharply. Will yawns. The scar on his cheek stretches. It as well is completely healed, albeit remaining a visible ridge on his skin.

Will must have caught the look on his face. He sits up, frowns, and mutters, “Shit, I forgot it’s Thursday. Wait here—” 

Hannibal moves at once, capturing his wrist before Will can slide out of bed. “What is it about Thursday, Will?”

Will turns to him with a patient smile that quite reminds Hannibal of himself. He places a hand on Hannibal’s grip, prying his hand off gently as he shifts closer on the bed. “Let’s take it from the top, shall we?”

“I’m afraid I’m not grasping the situation.”

“We’re in Cienfuegos. We’ve been here for a year.” Will pauses. Hannibal dislikes the notion of needing the time to let it sink in. “Is your last memory of us falling off the cliff?”

 _Memory_. Hannibal is suddenly wary. The halls of his mind palace, pristine as always, have a foreign tinge to them. He peers into every room - those that he doesn’t share with Will, and those that he does. Wolf Trap and Will’s glazed over eyes; the Uffizi Gallery and Will’s knowing smile; the moon glinting on black blood and on Will’s skin. There is nothing about the coastline or Cuba, not even a sliver of new memory after the salty waves shattering against their body. But there is a gaping emptiness, Hannibal can feel - a blank hall, newly constructed and cleared up as though in preparation for a temporary exhibition.

“Yes,” he says. Will presses his bare shoulder against his and slots their hands together, fingers laced. He is so close that Hannibal could bury his nose into those curls if he so wants. And he does, but merely closes his eyes and breathes in. He has a fair guess as to what is amiss. “How often does this happen?”

Will rubs his thumb over the back of Hannibal’s hand. “Every week,” he says softly. “Your memory resets every Thursday. The morning after we fell.”

“Anterograde amnesia,” Hannibal muses, nearly curling his lips into a sardonic smile. His prized memory, rendered defunct. Is it not fitting a curse? To finally see Will every day, yet unable to commit each moment to memory. Will has him now for eternity, or for as long as Will pleases and Hannibal would not think to oppose. Hannibal only has Will for seven days, at a time. A meager 168 hours, give or take. His chest seizes. He is as bemused as he is in pain.

“Drives me crazy the first few weeks. You didn’t believe me, you bastard.” Will leans his entire weight on Hannibal’s shoulder, seemingly to make a point. “And you weren’t strong enough to hold a damn pen. Couldn’t write your own diary, so I kept one for you until you could write it yourself.” Will gestures. Hannibal glances up, towards the bookshelves at the other end of the room. “It got easier when you started healing.”

“You could have used that opportunity to trick me.” Play with his mind the way Hannibal has with Will’s once. Hannibal could almost say he was disappointed that Will had not seized the chance, as heartwarming as his devotion was.

Will snorts. “Underhanded.”

“Is that aimed at me?”

“Maybe.”

It’s a short silence before Will speaks again. “I wasn’t happy about that, you know.”

“I can imagine. It is a rather cruel trick of fate, isn’t it?” 

“Since when have you believed in _fate_?” There is a smile in Will’s voice.

“I assure you I do not.” Hannibal reaches an arm over tentatively. Will lets him, and not only just. He catches Hannibal’s hand and places it on the side of his waist.

“But you do believe in cruelty,” Will murmurs. “Do you want your journal? You wrote yourself a note in there.”

Hannibal sighs, pulling Will closer to him. “Perhaps later.”

“Of course.” Will grins crookedly. “You’ve got all the time in the world.”


End file.
